


Hate and Love and Coffee in the Age of Smaug

by TheMostePotente



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Love/Hate, M/M, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:03:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMostePotente/pseuds/TheMostePotente
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil meets an unlikely Dwarf in his favourite coffee shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hate and Love and Coffee in the Age of Smaug

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much all Xylodemon's fault.
> 
> Two things of note.
> 
> 1.) There has been some debate on the pluralisation of the word Dwarf. I chose to use Dwarves.
> 
> 2.) In the US, we have a number of coffee shop chains. One of them just happens to be Caribou Coffee. *G*

**Hate and Love and Coffee in the Age of Smaug**

:::::

The line at Brandybuck’s Coffee is particularly long this morning.

He does not feel like waiting his turn. Counts the heads shorter in front of his own; four Halflings, one Orc, two Dwarves, and a Goblin. 

His sigh is so deflating, his sulk so pronounced, that it shifts the balance of self-pity in Middle-earth. He bites back his cutting words for the pipe-smoking lot, rather, and straightens his laurel of red leaves and berries.

He thinks that today, to lighten his darkening mood, he might enjoy a pastry. Perhaps, a cake pop to accompany his latté. He relishes the thought of a quiet table, away from the smell of Longbottom leaf and the bawdiness of a Dwarvish sing-a-long. Thinks that maybe he might enjoy a quiet Sunday not in the company of Glorfindel.

But that is not to be.

“Thranduil,” comes the familiar voice. Less gruff than he ever remembers, honeyed slightly by humility.

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He’d heard the Dwarf prince had had to take up odd jobs here and there. But even this is well beneath his station.

“Oh my,” he says, turning his pity inside out. “Thorin, son of Thráin. Working as a lowly barista. How the tides have turned.”

“Wouldn’t you be more at home at _Caribou_ in Needlehole?” Thorin says, stone-faced. He does not rise easily to the bait with anger like most Dwarves. He has far too much pride. It might be endearing were he three or four heads taller and didn’t stink of the darkest roast. 

Thorin doesn’t ask the question with him. It would be prudent to note that he gives better service, extends more courtesy to the fucking Orc.

“Ah, still with an axe to grind. Best you stick to beans.” Thranduil pauses a moment, lets his words fall like the thunk of a hammer, all in the space of a breath before continuing. “Venti soy-milk four-pump non-fat caramel latté. And don’t be shy with the dragon’s breath. Extra hot.”

Thranduil knows that even the mention of dragon’s breath strikes a nerve with Thorin. He’ll be sure and send his coffee back, twice at best, to further salt the wounds.

“Two Half-Kastars, three sixpence,” Thorin says, looking him straight in the eyes. He holds out his hand and wiggles his fingers, insistent Thranduil place the money in his open palm, utterly undeterred.

Thanduil sets the coins just in front of him. He delights in how those stubby fingers mimic the fluidity and grace that his people so easily possess, even take for granted at times.

“Oh, and I almost forgot. A cake pop,” he says with a purse of his lips, heavy emphasis on the Westron pulmonic.

Thorin will have to service him twice now. Thrice should he change his mind mid-action. There is always method to Elvish snobbery. He drops a few more coins on the counter and gathers his spoils, alighting elegantly. Far enough away yet close enough to observe, to annoy, to bother.

The growl in protest he imagines he hears is nothing more than Orcish mischief a table to the left. Thorin has moved away, moved on, and this unnerves Thranduil more than he cares to admit. He should be the centre of every universe from the four Farthings of the Shire to the ends of Nurn. He may be the heart and soul of Mirkwood, but he is barely a whisper in Valinor, and his name is yet unknown, unwritten on the sacred scrolls that reside in the Halls of Mandos.

Thranduil watches above the top folds of the Middle-earth Messenger. Reads all the way through to the prophecies before he tires of the cold shoulder. He tips his cup and watches in sadistic delight as liquid pours from the spout and onto the floor. He dramatically declares it a hazard and insists that Thorin attend to the mess immediately, _personally_. This is far better than sending it back for error and inconsistency. Now Thorin must bend the knee. 

And bend the knee he does, ungainly, ungracefully, wet rag in hand. He does not slouch like an encumbered shieldmaiden, though. Nor do his bones creak and rattle like that of a Barrow-wight on the haunt. Rather, an invisible strength ripples across Thorin’s shoulders. And Thranduil is absolutely not thinking about those dirty hands tangled in his plaits, or the weight of those barrel arms keeping him still and silent, back against a mallorn. 

There is a quiet majesty to Thorin the other Dwarves do not possess that some tongues might utter extinct. A majesty not that unlike Thorondor’s, and this is utterly apparent in the sharp eagle-eye and the sharper draw of hand wound about wrist. If Thranduil is not careful, his pedestal will crumble. The air about him is already beginning to thin. Thorin must sense this, because he lets Thranduil go. 

“Apologies, Thorin,” he allows. “I am not usually so graceless.” He cocks his head to the side, but all this accomplishes is the slide-tilt of his crown. 

“Forgiven,” Thorin says. He gets to his feet and slaps the sodden rag in Thranduil’s hands. “But not forgotten.”

He walks away, and his footsteps are heavy, and for once, _just this once_ , Thranduil does not wish for the beauty of the Eldar in his bed. He imagines coarse hair and calloused fingertips and sweat-cooled skin, fresh from a hard day’s labour of smithing and oreing.

He intends to leave then. Sunday is cursed. Always an ill guest in the house of seven. But before he goes, he deposits two Kastars in the tip jar.

“What’s this, then?” Thorin asks. “I will not have your pity.”

Thranduil’s smile is slight. “No, but you will have my respect.”

Albeit with due consideration.

He takes back one of the two Kastars, pinches it between thumb and index fingers. “But never too much.” He turns his back to Thorin. He does not wish a retort.

At the door he pauses, thinks better of his pronouncement to help rebuild Erebor. 

(Something wicked still darkens his willingness.)

And instead muses; _‘So this is how all great love stories begin.’_

With hatred.

::End::


End file.
